A prison of letters
by MyriadL
Summary: Gellert remembers the twinkle in his eyes, sapphire blue eyes that twinkled with the thirst for glory, twinkled with lust.


Pairing: Albus/Gellert

Summary: After years in prison, Grindelwald decides to write.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, JK is the Almighty in this case.

Author's note: Now that it's cannon, I couldn't stop myself. May I humbly note that I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT! Reviews are very much appreciated- it's a oneshot I might just continue so, do tell. ;)

_Darling Albus,_

_I write to you from less than a perfect setting, though not entirely unstimulating- I daresay you were right on your assumption that great minds have it in them to make the best of any place, even if it is a place another, as you are well aware of, no lesser a mind has forced them to occupy. I'm quite content with my own consideration towards malcontents, though I had never in my wildest of musings imagined I might meet my end in the very prison I had erected for them. This must indeed be the same Irony the world prides itself in possessing. It is perhaps the grand error of Muggle religion that they imagine their divinities humorless, though I shudder to remind you it was not so when our kind ruled. You must get used to my ponderings and digressions as I assume they are bound to find their ways into what was imagined as a brief letter; I hope, if you are even reading this and my efforts have not already reached your fireplace, it should be the least of your troubles. I hazard to think whether this is not mere hubris and nothing more. Still….Albus, I must say, I wonder….Had you accepted the post of Minister, had you detested me a little less these eight years that had separated us, had our losses not been so few but so tremendous, had our duel gone differently….I wonder a great many things. Despite ones assumption that one can do nothing else in prison but wonder, and I do devote my strengths to more than this sole pastime, I still find I wonder quite a lot. I even wonder whether you do, whether I find myself still in your mind. I am quite near being content when I say I am certain I do, be your fate, at least at first glance, no worse than mine. But, I find myself in need of saying a great deal before I graze this subject as thoroughly as I plan to. So, off to the necessities. Do you not find it humorous how my vacation has altered my habit of sending brief letters, my impatience when countered with the situation of having to relay in writing what I would much rather impress in person? I would advise, imagine me as vividly as you can see my ink, if it please you. Imagine my voice; you have no doubt forgotten not a note of it. You are the only person I considered worthy of hearing it, if we are to be truthful. And we are, aren't we? I digress…_

_I must thank you for three things. The absence of the Dementors, a matter I need not elaborate on any further. I'm sure that, despite the fact that you are my victor, regardless that the Wizarding world only knows of one of the ways in which you became it, you still had to use all your influence in granting me the leisure those demons would not have allowed me. For this, I owe you my happiness, scarce as it is. Second, the books, without which I would have wished you had left the Dementors. They are my sanity, or what little is left of it. They are what my Daemon has yearned for, or still can yearn without the notion of futility to deprave its desires. Spell short as they are, and I must attest my understanding, if not approval of this, the philosophy you have made it possible still for me to spend my nights with, the poetry… You haven't forgotten, my lover, you haven't, have you? Never, never would I wish upon you this blessings. Never would I grant myself the same. I'm sure it displeases you that I am still no less strong, for weakness would relieve me of quite a few pains that still dare and haunt me. Still, never will I forget. Albus, I would have made such a horrid meal for them, don't you think? Terribly inadequate… The third is the Pensieve. Though you know my fervent dislike for it was once one of the rare trifles time had not changed, I must say I commend you for your offering to let me have one (I know it was you, whatever you might surmise). I would not think elaborate on the ways and purposes of its use, though I believe you are well aware of all of them. I have forgotten nothing, nothing at all. I hunger still…. I am depraved, and yearn for all I have been depraved of… It is a horrible fault of character that I consider stoicism dull. It would help me greatly, had I even the faintest disinterest in life in me. _

_Alas, I write to you and can see quite clearly the morose expression that will find itself present on your features. I have not the slightest hope you shall answer. You see, I am sane, aren't I? Lucid to the point of abnormality. Grant me the curtsey to, if you can, hate me a bit less for this letter. I know how it will haunt you, like the dirtiest, foulest of apparitions. I wish I could say I am sorry for it, I honestly do. I wish I could say in earnest, I do not blame you for not writing back- eight years having passed from the duel in which my fate was sealed, eight wordless years, my friend. If it paints me in better a light, know there were many letters started and unsent, many times that self control, a virtue I am certain you thought me incapable of, many times I did not wish to…dare to….burden you with my writing. Be my reasons for that what they may, admit that, for eight years, indeed I did not burden you. Allow me at least a fraction of the sympathy you are transformed into legend by. It could have been your power that made you a god; it could have been your ambition, if you had had enough love for me. Allow me this outburst of bitterness, shall you, if your empathy has driven you to reading this. I sound bitter, do I not? I am bitter, darling, and frightfully so, if I may add. You may allow yourself the comforts of repeating: 'I am blameless.' and believing it. Every day, stone walls, a glass jar of my life, pages and pages of brilliance that are my only company, every day my very soul reminds me I am not. My bitterness is perhaps, one of my advantages. Had I not my bitterness, I would suffocate myself in regret. Had I been guiltless, I would not have ended up here. Were I, shall I say, up to par, things would have… Been as they should. For the greater good, dearest one, I should have killed you. And yet… _

_Digressions are the vice of one unhappy, are they not? Forgive me. I hunger for music, more than most things. I do not blame the silence of my years on you, for I know there was not a way for you to grant me both books and the latter but… I have not forgotten it. I hear it in the Pensieve. I go to concerts, over and over, and am so well versed now in the scripture of symphonies (I look down the conductors neck, stand behind the pianist…), so well versed in their exact writing I could recite Beethoven, note for note, I could recite everything I've ever heard perfectly were there anyone to come and hear me. The little company they have allowed me, the few people not down the hallways in their very own cells that still wish to share my company, those visitors find no joy in such things. You, on the other hand, do- you who are not here, to share this cell with me. I do hope your own home is no less crowded, your own sleeping quarters no less warm. Am I evil in harboring such desires? I do not think it consequential, since you have already made undoubtedly clear your opinion on my morality. At least I am honest, aye? You are, regrettably, still the only person with whom I was ever, or wanted to be, sincere. I'm sure you wish I wasn't. Do you think old age, my confines, will obliterate this yearning? Do you think, at some point, I will feel no need to expose myself so pathetically on a slip of parchment, feel no need to glance at you in the monster of memory? Do you think I shall ever forget how your eyes used to twinkle, twinkle in lust, twinkle with the thirst for glory? Do you think… Did you honestly think, ever, ever, that a duel could end it all? Rid you of me? If you have in yourself the…whatever you might think it to reply, say, a yes, a no, it will be enough. I knew you couldn't kill me. My last secret to divulge is-neither could I do the same. Had my Avade Kedavra not missed you, it wouldn't have finished you either way. We need to want it, do we not? For you, ungrateful bastard that you are, I spared the whole of Britain. You are an imbecile if you thought otherwise. It is with your intelligence in mind that I ask what I have stated. It is with your heart in mind that I shall never forgive you for even thinking it. Were both in prison, you and I. Yours is merely made of flesh. I write for you to make me a promise; a yes or a no in your mind will suffice as an answer. Perhaps then, I will be made a better meal for a kiss that is never to come. _

_You are well aware I could still cast a spell to do this to you, even, even from here, and though you would repel it, perhaps not at the very second it would reach you, I do not wish to. I wish this to be for your own benefit, and mine, no ones but our own. I wish you to be unable to answer this plea, for you do not have a choice. I wish to, Albus, so many things, so many but… I make one demand of you. The skin that binds you, the pale skin I remember exactly as it was, each time I laid eyes on it, let me pretend I am its master. Let me pretend, for you know the Pensieve does not offer this, let me pretend the recollection of its taste is mine and mine alone. That its warmth has never received anyone else. If I could not have had your soul, let me at least do so with your body. Numengard is not my jail, you are. I ask of you the same courtesy._

_Ever yours, Gellert_

Hours passed, but it was not until fire appeared, and Fawkes finally stopped his song that Albus Dumbledore found it in himself to flinch.


End file.
